Sheriff on the Spot (4 page)

“Whereabouts?”

This time she did look up. The blue of her eyes was deeper, now. Almost violet. “Upstairs.” She hesitated. Her voice softened. “I helped him to his room.”

Pat asked curtly, “Drunk?”

“A little bit.” She licked her cigarette.

“He's drinkin' a lot these days, isn't he?”

“Too much.” Kitty Lane's voice was suddenly tired. She leaned forward with the tightly rolled cigarette between her lips to get a light from his. Her eyes held his as the tips of their cigarettes touched.

She drew back, drawing in a deep breath and expelling a cloud of blue smoke through her crimsoned lips. “You could talk to him, Pat. He'd listen to you.” She put her hand on his arm. “You don't mind if I call you Pat?”

Pat said, “No.” The waiter came with their drinks.

“I want to talk to him,” Pat told her roughly. “He's not in his room. You know where he is?”

She shrank back from his tone, shook her head slowly while she looked down at her cigarette. “Isn't he in his room?”

“If he is, he's locked in an' passed out,” Pat grated. “How many drinks did he have in your room after you went upstairs together?” he added brutally.

The color fled from Kitty's cheeks, leaving two round spots of rouge. “Do you think I drink with men in my bedroom?”

“Don't you?”

“No.” She stamped her foot down on the floor. “You men are all alike. Just because a girl works in a saloon, you think she's a—a—”

Pat said harshly, “What's Fred Ralston to you?”

Kitty-Lane pushed back her chair and stood up. She leaned forward and slapped Pat, leaving the print of her fingers on his face, sobbing loudly, “Damn you. That's for your insult.”

Half the men in the saloon had been watching interestedly ever since Pat and Kitty had gone over to the table together.

Now, there was a concerted movement forward, and a low muttering as they drew their own interpretation of Kitty's action.

One youth pushed forward from the rest as Kitty whirled away from the table with her head held high. He was Dan Peters, young enough to be Pat's son, with a cow-lick and with the soft down of an unrazored beard on his cheeks. He wore high-heeled Spanish boots, and had a shiny gun-belt strapped tightly about his young waist. He had enough liquor in him to make him foolish, and he was callowly in love with Kitty Lane.

“Whass he doin', Miss Kitty?” Dan muttered thickly. He swayed a little on his high heels as he tried to strut forward.

Kitty sobbed, “Oh, Dan! He said the most awful things to me. Make him stop.”

“You bet I will, Miss Kitty,” the young puncher promised drunkenly. He faced Pat and his voice cracked in an embarrassing falsetto as he demanded, “Git up on yore hind laigs, Pat Stevens, an' crave the lady's pardon.”

Pat gave a snort of disgust and glared at the boy. “Go blow your nose, Dan, an' keep it out of menfolk's business.”

Someone at the bar snickered loudly. The sound infuriated Dan, drove the last semblance of sober sense from his mind. He slapped his hand down to the butt of his six-gun and tugged at it awkwardly.

Pat kicked his chair back and started toward him. “Don't be a fool, Dan. Let go of that gun.”

Dan got a thin sneer on his lips and began to curse Pat. His gun came loose unexpectedly and he triggered it as it came up waveringly.

A bullet tore into the floor three feet to Pat's right and ten feet behind him. He lunged forward and got hold of Dan's gun, gave him a shove back into the crowd and ordered calmly, “If he's got any friends here you'd better take him out and sober him up.” He broke the gun and threw the cartridges out, then tossed the empty weapon at Dan Peters' feet.

He strode to Kitty Lane's side and took her arm firmly. “We're goin' upstairs to your room.”

4

Kitty pulled back from him, her violet-blue eyes flashing dangerously. “You've got your nerve, Pat Stevens.”

He kept hold of her bare arm and repeated stolidly, “We're goin' upstairs to your room.”

Her red lips curled away from her teeth contemptuously. “And some people in this town think you're a gentleman.”

Pat laughed shortly and started pulling her toward the door leading into the lobby. “Bein' sheriff and gentleman don't work so good together sometimes.”

She hung back, turned her head to call vibrantly to the crowd of admirers behind her, “Isn't there a real man in the bunch? Are you going to let this—this
ex-sheriff—
treat me like a she-dog right in front of you?”

Most of the men at the bar knew Pat Stevens intimately; all of them knew his gun-slinging reputation. She got some low growls in response to her plea; there was a slow movement forward, but no man was eager to push forward in front of the rest to make a try at stopping Pat.

He laughed deep in his throat and kept relentlessly moving her toward the door. “You'd best shut your mouth an' come along, Ma'am. I got a different reason for taking you upstairs from what you seem to think.”

Real fear flickered in her eyes, but she said angrily, “All men have the same idea about a girl who sings and dances in a saloon. You're no different from the rest, even if Sam Sloan does think you're a little tin god on wheels.”

Pat shouldered the glass door open, drew her through into the lobby. He turned and spoke quietly to the group of men edging forward, “You boys will save yourselves a lot of trouble if you stay on that side of this door. Happens I'm still sheriff in Powder Valley—an' this is law-business.”

An audible gasp came from Kitty's carmine lips as he closed the door firmly behind them. She swayed back at arm's length from him and her eyes were widely dilated. Her full bosom rose and fell as she panted, “You're still—the sheriff?”

Pat nodded grimly. “I'm still carryin' my badge.”

“But—what about the other man? Jeth Purdue?”

“Right now Jeth's bein' right quiet inside the locked jail-house.” Pat frowned and gave her an angry shake. “You might's well come along quiet, Ma'am. I'm takin' charge here instead of Jeth.”

“Don't tell him a word, Kitty.” The warning was a venomous snarl from the lips of Joe Deems. He stood at the end of a passageway leading off the lobby into the hotel dining room, and he was flanked by two men with guns in their right hands. Pat recognized the two gunmen as helpers around the hotel. Deems had a bandage around his head. His yellowish eyes were slaty-hard.

Pat said quietly, “You're a fool, Deems. This won't get you anywhere but in jail along with Jeth Purdue. There's still law in Dutch Springs.”

Deems said, “I'm playing my own cards, Stevens. Keep your guns on him, boys.” He stepped forward slowly, and his gun-hands stayed behind, covering Pat.

“Did you hear what he said, Joe?” Kitty spoke swiftly. “He's still the sheriff!”

Deems grated, “I said to keep your mouth shut.” He stopped in front of her and warned Pat, “You better let go of her arm.”

Pat shrugged and let go of Kitty Lane's arm. There was a red splotch on the white flesh where his hard fingers had held her in a merciless grip. She stepped swiftly backward, rubbing the bruised place with the fingers of her other hand.

Pat glanced beyond her at Deems' two men. Their guns were held loosely, in the manner of men who knew what they were doing. He knew it would be suicide to go for his own holstered weapons, and he'd stayed alive this long in Powder Valley by not trying his luck against such odds.

Pat said, “All right, Deems. Go ahead an' play your cards. But be damned sure they're not topped.”

“Just back up toward the door and don't let your hands get careless.”

Pat backed slowly toward the front door of the hotel, keeping his hands in front of him. He said, “You're a fool, Deems. I aim to find Sam an' Ezra. What's all this gun-play about?”

Deems darted a sideways look at Kitty. “What's he been saying to you?”

“He acts crazy. Said I had to go upstairs with him.”

Deems swung on Pat abruptly. “You've already been upstairs—while I was out in the kitchen getting my head fixed. What did you find that time?”

Pat shook his head and said blandly, “Sam's an' Ezra's doors were locked an' I couldn't find 'em. I thought maybe Kitty would know where a key was.”

“There's something else on his mind,” Kitty told her employer faintly. “He asked me the funniest thing. Asked me what I knew about some other man I never heard of. Some name like—Fred something or other.”

“Fred Ralston,” Pat supplied coldly.

“That's it. What do you suppose he meant, Joe? He's acting awfully funny.”

Deems grated, “What do you know about Fred Ralston?”

“Not much,” Pat admitted frankly. “He's a dude from Denver that came in on the stage tonight. I'd like to know what he's doing in Powder Valley.”

“Why don't you ask him?”

“That's what I'd like to do,” Pat said mildly. “I knocked on his door, too, but it was locked.”

He saw a swift spasm of relief flicker over Kitty's face, but Joe Deems frowned and addressed Tom Forrest behind the counter.

“Is that Ralston fellow up in his room?”

“I reckon,” the clerk's voice quavered. “He went up an' I ain't seen him come back down.”

Deems frowned and said, “Maybe something's happened to him.” He went toward the clerk. “Give me an extra key to his room.”

“Joe!” Kitty spoke in sharp warning.

Deems ignored her. He got a key from the clerk and told Pat, “I'm sorry about all this trouble. But you've got to understand that a man just naturally doesn't like to get pushed around in his own hotel.”

Pat said, “Pulling guns on a sheriff is a good way to get pushed around a lot more.”

Deems nodded affably. “I guess that wasn't very smart, but I've got a crazy temper when I get riled up.” He turned to his men and ordered, “You boys put your guns away and go on into the back. I won't need you any more.”

Kitty Lane came forward swiftly as the men turned and disappeared. She asked fearfully, “What are you going to do, Joe?”

He looked at her in some surprise. “Why, I guess I'd better prove to the sheriff there isn't anything wrong here. If that Ralston man is wanted by the law, I'm not going to protect him. Come on, Sheriff.” He turned toward the stairway.

“Wait, Joe.” Kitty clung to him desperately. Her eyes were round and enormous. “Can't you—?”

“I know what I'm doing.”

“But you don't!” Her voice rose hysterically. “Don't take him up there, Joe!
Don't do it.”

Joe Deems thrust the entertainer away roughly. “This is still my hotel and I'll run it.”

Pat stepped forward and said quietly, “I'd mighty well like to know why Miss Kitty don't want me upstairs.”

“You know how women are,” Deems grunted with disgust. “Always getting crazy ideas about what somebody's going to think. Quit acting so innocent,” he went on brutally to Kitty. “Every man in Dutch Springs knows what you are by this time.”

Kitty drew back from him, her eyes dark with anger. She wet her red lips but didn't say anything.

“The way you've been carrying on with Sam Sloan—having him in your room and ordering drinks and all,” Deems went on disgustedly. “Everybody knows it. Everybody knows you were after his money and didn't care much how you got it.”

Kitty's lips tightened. She swung her hand in a wide arc against his cheek.

Deems' eyes blazed and he doubled his fist. Pat Stevens stepped between them, facing Kitty and backing her away. “Is Joe telling the truth? Are you afraid to have me go upstairs for fear of what I'll find out about you and Sam?”

She shook her head and sobbed, “No. That's not true. Sam is kind and good and—”

“And he's got eight thousand dollars cash,” Joe Deems put in cynically from behind Pat. “Come on, Sheriff. Let's get on upstairs. More than likely Sam Sloan's passed out cold in his room and that's why you couldn't get any answer.”

Pat kept his back turned to Deems. He gazed steadily down into Kitty's eyes. “How long since you've been upstairs?”

“A long time. I went down the back stairs and into the kitchen for my supper before starting to work.”

“And you left Sam in his room?” Pat persisted.

She nodded. “He had been—drinking.”

“With you,” Joe Deems put in.

She looked past Pat at Deems with a look of hatred on her face. She faltered, “I had a couple of drinks with him before we went upstairs.”

“I'm not talking about those drinks. I'm talking about the bottle you hit together in your room.” There was grating anger in Deems' voice, and another note that puzzled Pat. The hotel proprietor sounded as though it hurt him to say it, as though he rubbed salt on a raw wound by repeating his accusation of intimacy between Kitty Lane and Sam. He sounded, by God, Pat thought suddenly, like a jealous man.

He turned on Deems and said, “You didn't like the way Kitty was carrying on with Sam, did you?”

“It wasn't good for business,” growled Deems. “She was hired to be friendly to all the men, but when I brought her here from Denver I warned her that in a little town like this it'd make trouble if she was any more than just friendly to any certain man.”

“So you tried to make her leave Sam alone?”

“I kept telling her that paying so much attention to Sam wasn't good for business.”

“Are you sure,” Pat asked slowly, “that was your only reason?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you were sore because you wanted Kitty for yourself.”

Pat swung about at the sound of a gasp from Kitty. “Wasn't that it?” he probed.